


A Bittersweet Reunion

by 17stepstobakerstreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, Includes reference to some events from canon, John is not a jerk, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Partially inspired by ACD canon, Post-Reichenback, Reunion, Self-Indulgent, Sherlock is mess, but they never actually happened here, they are in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28563366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17stepstobakerstreet/pseuds/17stepstobakerstreet
Summary: John could feel himself getting faint, could feel himself starting to sway on his feet, and had just enough time to squeeze out, “Sh- Sherlock…” before he was collapsing, passing out in the arms of the man he had needed most of all.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 71





	A Bittersweet Reunion

It started out as a normal Friday for John; he sighed and rubbed his hands over his face when he awoke, once again feeling like he had not received enough energy from the amount of time that he had been asleep, but decided not to focus on that and instead pushed himself out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen, his head starting to throb for a reason unknown to him. Sighing again, John popped bread into the toaster and filled the kettle with water, clicking it on before slumping down into one of the seats around the table of 221b Baker Street.

His eyes skimmed over the flat as they usually did in the morning, taking in the place he had been unable to let go of after his friend died. He knew, deep down, that this was him trying too hard to grasp at strings that were quickly being pulled just a hair out of his reach. No matter how far he reached up to them, he couldn’t quite grasp them, could only feel his fingers brushing tantalizingly over the frayed edges. _You’ll never see him again, no matter how much of his stuff you keep in the flat, no matter how long you stay here. He’s dead, John._

John only sighed again and shook his head to get rid of the thoughts as the toaster popped. Those particular thoughts always tended to lurk near the back of his head, ready to jump to the forefront at any moment of distraction. He was used to it now, the empty pain that came with the reminder that he would never see Sherlock interact with him, the flat, or anyone else in their life ever again. Taking a small bite of toast and promptly ignoring the fact it was turning to ash in his mouth, John’s attention was drawn to the kettle clicking off, notifying him that it was ready. Toast forgotten at the moment, John stood up and prepared his tea efficiently, taking a sip and once again ignoring the way it nearly burned his mouth. It was all just a habit now, coming down to eat a breakfast of ashy-tasting toast and almost-burning tea.

Scarfing down his breakfast with a practised ease of someone who just wanted to get eating over with quickly, John pushed himself back onto his feet and towards Sherlock’s room, absentmindedly rubbing his fingers over his temples. He had been wanting to sleep in that room for the past few months, the allure of being able to pretend that Sherlock was close called to him, and had only given in a few days ago. There was a duffel bag full of John’s clothing on the floor, and the bed was a mess from John’s tossing and turning during the night, but other than that, he had left everything how it was. He knew from experience with other places in the flat that it was better that way, easier to pretend that Sherlock was just away for a case and that he would be back that night.

He dressed quickly, trying to ignore the fact that, despite forcing himself to eat three meals a day, he was still slowly losing weight. The idea of going to the gym had been looming in his mind for the past few weeks, for he was starting to feel that familiar itch to gain back all of the muscle mass he had lost, but he never seemed to make time for it, letting it slip from his mind until the moments he was too busy to do anything about it. Sighing again, John brushed his teeth before taking some painkillers for his still-throbbing head. Shrugging his coat on, he took one last look around the flat for that morning before heading out the door for his short walk to work.

_Will the monotony ever end?_

.

His work day came and went just like all of the others before it, and John trudged back up the stairs to 221b, pulling out his phone on the way up, dialing the number to a local chinese take-out place, ordering his favorite for delivery and thanking the person on the phone before hanging up and throwing his phone carelessly onto the couch. John collapsed into a chair (Sherlock’s chair, his brain supplied unhelpfully) in his living room and sighed deeply, closing his eyes for just a few seconds, his hands clenching and unclenching on the arms of the chair.

“Another day,” John mumbled, his eyes fluttering open and landing on the skull still on the mantel. “Just another day without him.” Emotions welled up within him, and he let out a shaky breath, drumming his fingers on his thighs. It was getting easier, it really was. He no longer cried himself to sleep (those few nights that he _could_ got to sleep, that is), the nightmares were becoming less adamant and didn’t bother him as much anymore (but they still plagued him more than he would like to admit), and he could go throughout his days with a smile on his face now (so what if they were fake 50% of the time?).

There was a faint knock on the door, and John pushed away the thoughts and descended the stairs from 221b, pulling out his wallet to pay for his food. He opened the door, his gaze still down at his wallet as he pulled out the cash he knew he had stored in there. His heart stuttered to a stop when he heard a familiar voice say, “Hello, John.” His head snapped up and he was met with the sight of Sherlock (hair too long, face gaunt, bags under his eyes, shoulder bunched up in visible discomfort, at least two new scars on his face) with a chinese take-out bag in his hands, an unsure smile on his face.

John could feel himself getting faint, could feel himself starting to sway on his feet, and had just enough time to squeeze out, “Sh- Sherlock…” before he was collapsing, passing out in the arms of the man he had needed most of all.

When he came to, he was lounging uncomfortably against the stairs, the door shut, the take-out lying forgotten on the floor next to Sherlock. He was holding a glass of what John assumed was whiskey (he could taste it in his mouth) and was being thoroughly scolded by Mrs. Hudson. John gasped, which quieted Mrs. Hudson immediately. “Sherlock,” John said, nearly breathless, as Sherlock rushed to his side, placing the glass of whiskey on the floor. “Sherlock, oh my God, please tell me it’s really you.” John reached out and threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him in for a tight hug, ignoring the way his breath was stuttering.

“It’s me John, it’s really me, I promise,” Sherlock babbled, hugging John back just as tight with arms slung around his back. “I’m here, I’m really here, I promise.” John could feel a laugh bubbling up, and he was powerless to stop it from coming out, so he buried his face into Sherlock’s neck and laughed like he hadn’t been able to for years, his closed eyes filling quickly with tears. Sherlock started laughing as well, and much too soon he pulled away from John and wiped the tears from his eyes, his hand lingering on John's face for a little longer than was strictly necessary.

“Fucking Christ, Sherlock,” John said, his unbelieving laughter dying down. “I- where have you been? Why the fuck did you fake your death?” He wasn’t sure whether he should have been fuming or on top of the clouds at that moment, so he settled for shock, the sight of his best friend sitting on the floor in front of him, breathing, still settling in as real. Sherlock seemed to immediately draw into himself at the question, as if expecting an outburst from John. When nothing happened, he took a deep breath, his fingers fidgeting in his lap.

“On the roof, Moriarty had come with a plan that even I couldn’t get out of without taking drastic measures. He had- he had snipers trained on Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and-” his voice seemed to catch in his throat, so he took a deep breath before continuing. “And you. The only way to save you was to either kill myself, or fake my death. Obviously, I decided faking my death was the best idea. But even then, you three weren’t out of danger. They were still watching, so I resigned myself to going into hiding and taking down Moriarty’s network.” He seemed to break down a little bit, his breathing speeding up. “I’m so sorry I did that, that I made you watch, that I made you go through all of that but I couldn’t let you die, I just couldn’t do that-” John pulled him into another tight hug, effectively cutting him off, and over Sherlock’s shoulder he could see that Mrs. Hudson was no longer fuming, and now had a softer, more grief-filled expression on her face.

“Stop apologizing for saving my damn life, Sherlock,” John whispered, earning a sob from the man encased in his arms. He knew there was a small part of him that was angry, but it was quickly being suffocated by the amount of thankfulness he was feeling for Sherlock. He didn’t have the ability to comprehend the fact that Sherlock had done so much to save him, so instead of thinking too deeply about it, he nudged Sherlock and said, “Hey, why don’t we go up into the flat and eat the chinese food? I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will appreciate us getting off her stairs and letting her have a peaceful evening.” Sherlock drew back and took a deep breath as if to compose himself, then nodded once, standing up and grabbing the bag of food.

Before he could get far, Mrs. Hudson swept him up into a hug of her own, wrapping her arms tightly around his back. He stiffened and seemed to flinch for a second but soon relaxed into the embrace. She whispered something too quiet to be heard by John before releasing him, and Sherlock just nodded, a small smile on his face. She squeezed his forearm before going back into her flat, closing the door behind her. John, tugging gently on Sherlock’s sleeve to get his attention, jerked his chin towards the door to their flat. Sherlock smiled and followed John up the stairs, hugging the food to his chest.

When they stepped into the flat and Sherlock had placed the food gently on the counter, he turned back to John, his fingers fidgeting once again in front of him. He was avoiding John’s eyes. “John… are you- are you angry with me?” Sherlock asked suddenly, causing John’s eyebrows to furrow in confusion.

“Am I… angry? With you?” John repeated. Sherlock nodded his head, still not meeting John’s gaze. John let himself think about it for a little bit before answering. “I think a small part of me is angry with you,” John said, and Sherlock seemed to deflate, his shoulders slouching. “But,” he continued, “it’s barely there. There’s so much relief from seeing you alive, and so much thankfulness for what you did for me, that it’s easy to ignore. Because not everybody I know would fake their death to save my life,” John said, sentiment leaking into his voice. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Sherlock began, shrugging one shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be angry with me? I killed myself right in front of you, I left you alone to grieve, and now I’m back without warning, showing up to your flat and you just forgive me? Just like that?”

“Our flat,” John corrected, getting plates out of the cupboard and placing them next to the food. Pushing aside the memory of The Fall that Sherlock had caused to resurface, John said, “And are you forgetting about the part where you saved my life? Shouldn’t that be enough for me to forgive you?” Sherlock muttered something under his breath, but when John asked what he had said, Sherlock brushed it off and stepped forward to get some food. John was glad to see Sherlock load his plate up with food without prompting, and nearly happier to realize the smell of the food wasn’t turning his stomach as it had been doing for as long as he could remember.

“Christ,” John said, settling down in his chair to eat, a grin on his face, “I actually want to eat. I’m _hungry_. I can’t tell you the last time that happened.” John took a bite of his food and nearly groaned at the taste. It was all he could do to stop himself from shoveling forkful after forkful of food into his mouth (as he knew that it would be a little too much for his stomach to take), letting the flavors settle over his tongue in the way that he remembered from before The Fall. He glanced up at Sherlock and frowned when he saw the man was just playing with the food on his plate, pushing it around with his fork, barely eating any of it. His face looked pale and ashen. “Sherlock? What’s-”

His plate hit the coffee table with a clatter, his hands raising to cover his eyes, shoulders beginning to tremble. “I can’t- you were supposed to be mad at me! It’s what I deserved. I had time to think about it on the plane ride back. You wouldn’t be here when I came back, and I’d find you at a restaurant with a woman, your girlfriend, named Mary, about to propose to her, and when you see me you would punch me, beat the shit out of me, anything but this. Why won’t you give me what I deserve?” John was struck speechless. _Mary? Girlfriend? Proposal? Beat him?_ As long as John had known Sherlock, he had nearly never heard the man swear. Maybe once, while he was knee-deep in a case and couldn’t find the next thread he needed, when a child was in danger.

“Sherlock, what are you-”

“Then, I knew it would take you some time to fully forgive me,” Sherlock continued, becoming frantic, his fingers threading roughly through his hair. “I had caused you so much grief, the least I could do was let you take it out on me. Despite my return you still fucking proposed to Mary, and then on top of all of that, you asked me to be your best man at your wedding.” He let out a broken laugh, his fingers tightening in his hair, just short of pulling on it. John was frozen in his seat, itching to move, but not quite sure what to do.

“I agreed to be your best man, I never could say no to you, but it hurt, it hurt so fucking much that you chose her over me but that didn’t matter because I just wanted you to be happy, happier than I could ever hope to be, because I don’t really deserve to be happy, do I?” Sherlock’s breathing was getting concerningly fast.

“Sherlock-”

“I watched you marry her,” Sherlock choked out, as if his throat was starting to close around his words. “You looked so happy, so in love, and I still had to stay and play a piece that I wrote for you for your first dance. It was fucking torture, but I stayed because I loved you, still love you so much, and you needed me there to be the happiest you could be.” Something in that admission niggled in the back of John’s mind, but he was too busy trying to figure out what to do. “I was expecting to come back to that, John, and I knew that I deserved it, so why isn’t it happening?” John, as if his joints finally unfroze themselves, found himself able to move and wasted no time in rushing over to Sherlock, falling to his knees in front of the man’s chair, gently pulling his clenched hands out of his hair.

“Shhh, Sherlock, you’re panicking, can you breathe with me please? Will you do that for me?” Sherlock, his eyes clenched shut, nodded and let John lead him through a breathing exercise. What felt like minutes, hours, days, years later Sherlock’s breathing was back to normal, his hand held tightly to John’s chest. “Feeling better, yeah?” Sherlock nodded and sniffed, rubbing at his tear-stained face with his free hand.

“Yes, thank you John,” he said, his voice still a little shaky. “I’m sorry about all of that, I-”

“Stop apologizing, Sherlock. You went through, I’m assuming, something quite traumatic while you were away, and while I don’t know the particulars, you don’t need to apologize for the reactions you have to it. Anyways…” he drifted off, realizing what he had missed in his need to comfort Sherlock, his heart skipping in his chest. “You love me?” The words had popped out before he could stop them, and he cringed at himself. _Wow, good on you for that, what a nice, careful way to bring up something he probably didn’t even mean to say._

Sherlock, slumping further in on himself in a resigned way, pulled his hand out of John’s grip, and once again hid his face in his palms. After a few seconds of silence, he whispered, “I really said that, didn’t I?” Although John knew Sherlock couldn’t see him do it, he nodded, eyes wide, heart still beating heavily in his chest with the hope that it was the truth. “I…” Sherlock took a deep breath. “I do, yes. I love you.” John let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding, then a grin overtook his face and he took Sherlock’s hands in his own. The man looked up to him, eyes rimmed in red, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Well then, it’s good I’ve spent the last two years coming to terms with the fact I was in love with you before you died, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open, but before he could say anything, John pressed a kiss to his temple and said, “Well, I say I was in love with you, but who am I kidding? I never fell out of love with you, never could.” A smile matching John’s spread over Sherlock’s face, and soon they were laughing again, Sherlock’s head resting on John’s shoulder, John’s nose buried deeply in Sherlock’s hair.

“Well,” John said once their giggles died down, “now that we got all of that out into the open, I believe there’s someone here who needs a kiss.” This sent Sherlock into another small fit of giggles, and John joined in, unable to stop himself. Their hearts were full, finally, after two years of being empty.

“I think you’re quite right about that, John,” Sherlock replied, pulling back to meet John’s eyes. They smiled at each other, and when John cupped Sherlock’s face and finally brought their lips together, the world was set right. Sherlock gasped and John hummed softly, caressing Sherlock’s cheekbone softly before sliding his hand gently into the silky curls he had dreamt about so many times. This earned him another gasp from Sherlock, then a tiny hum as he moved closer to John, sliding out of the chair and into his lap, wrapping his arms securely around the back of John’s neck. Winding his free arm around Sherlock’s back, John moved to pull him closer but stopped when Sherlock hissed sharply into the kiss.

“Fuck, are you-” Sherlock cut him off.

“I’ll be okay, John. I promise. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow, but we’ve both had quite the emotionally exhausting day, so I think it best if we wait. Is that alright?” Sherlock asked, his arms still linked around John’s neck.

“Are you in any immediate danger or in need of medical attention?” John asked.

“No danger, and I won’t need medical attention until tomorrow,” Sherlock answered, his voice soft. “Please, John?” John took a deep breath and let it out, trying to push down the doctor in him that would demand to know what was wrong.

“Okay. Yeah, okay,” John said. “Avoid the back for now, right?” Sherlock nodded, and John settled his free hand on Sherlock’s hip, pulling him in for another soft kiss. Sherlock seemed to melt into it, his chest rising and falling steadily against John’s, arms wound tightly around his neck as if he never wanted to move. Taking Sherlock’s bottom lip in between his teeth, John nibbled it gently, causing Sherlock to hum softly and tilt his head slightly, unbothered by the fact that the kiss was crawling along at a slow pace. 

When they finally parted minutes later, Sherlock slumped fully onto John, letting the man beneath him support his full weight. John laughed and pressed a soft kiss onto the side of Sherlock's neck, whispering a soft, “Tired, love?” Sherlock only nodded and hugged himself closer to John, burying his nose into John’s neck as best he could. “Well, what are you waiting for then? Up you get, it’s time to get ready for bed.” Sherlock let out a long sigh.

“No, I don’t want to get up,” he whined, knowing that it would make John laugh. He giggled and smiled before suddenly placing his arms snugly under Sherlock and standing up with the man still clinging tightly to his chest.

“John! What-” Sherlock said, cutting himself off with giggles, letting John whisk him around the flat. It looked like they were dancing despite the fact that Sherlock’s legs were folded tightly around John’s back, holding him close to the man that was moving them towards the bathroom in a very roundabout way, swinging them around in a lazy waltz through their living room.

When they reached their destination, John set Sherlock down on the edge of their sink, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes. “John, I don’t think that was necessary, I can-” John shushed him and placed a kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s nose. His face turned a very pleasant shade of pink, and John winked at him.

“You didn’t want to get up, so I solved that for you. Now shush up and brush your teeth,” John said, placing a toothbrush and toothpaste into Sherlock’s hand before disappearing into Sherlock’s room. He returned holding a pair of old pajamas, setting them on the edge of the bathtub. They both brushed their teeth and spent that short amount of time in companionable silence, shoulders brushing, smiling as best they could while cleaning their teeth. When they were both done, John left Sherlock in the bathroom and shut the door, giving him time to get changed without John looking. _He won’t want me to see his back until tomorrow, and I’ve promised to respect that wish._

Sherlock quickly joined John in his (Sherlock’s? Their?) bedroom, flopping down onto John who was already laying on the bed, knocking the air right out of him. “Sherlock-”

“I want to be big spoon,” Sherlock said, wrestling John onto his side and under the duvet, sliding into place behind him. John let himself be moved by him and relished the feeling of Sherlock slinging an arm over his side, pressing a hand securely to John’s chest, pulling him impossibly closer. They fit together as if they had been made to, their legs tangling comfortably. A giggle bubbled out of John’s throat as he snuggled back against Sherlock’s chest, hugging the man’s arms closely to his chest.

The room fell silent. It wasn’t even five minutes later when Sherlock whispered, “John?”

“Hmm?” John replied sleepily, cracking his eyes open slightly. Sherlock seemed to take a deep breath, his chest expanding slowly against John’s back.

“Thank you. For this. For not hating me, and consoling me even though you probably needed it more.” Sherlock’s arms tightened around John as he spoke, and his nose buried itself into John’s neck, nosing at the warm skin there. 

“I’m just glad you’re finally back here, with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, thank you so much for taking the time to read this!! I realize this may not be the most in character (I honestly can't tell, it's hard to with my own work sometimes) but it's really quite self-indulgent and I'm finding that I do not care how in character they are for this. Anyways, I do hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!! Always remember, your comments and Kudos give me life and keep the wheels in my head churning!


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